Rex Kingdon on Storm Island

By Gordon Braddock

How would you like to spend a summer vacation on an uninhabited island off the Maine coast,—not alone, of course, but in company with a few chosen chums, all good fellows in their way and all of them ready for any sort of sport or adventure that might be found or borrowed? Surely, such a vacation would provide plenty of good fun, as well as some troubles and annoyances; but no vigorous, high-spirited American boy would mind a certain amount of inconveniences when he sets out to have a good time on a camping trip. In fact, he looks for some unpleasant things to happen, and he has a way of going right ahead and making the best of everything, so that many a time a source of irritation is turned into a spring of enjoyment and delight.
It was so with Rex Kingdon and his friends of the present story. When they arrived at Storm Island and found another party of campers located there, they at first were annoyed. They had understood that no one else would be given a permit to camp on that island. Imagine their astonishment when they discovered that the other party had deceived a local officer into letting them remain on the island by representing themselves to be "Rex Kingdon and friends," rightful holders of the camping permit. Trouble? Could anything spell trouble more plainly? But, after all, they managed to get more real fun out of it than they could have had if they had been the only campers on Storm Island. And, in the end, Rex wins a new recruit for Walcott Hall—and the prep. school baseball team.
This is the fifth story of The Rex Kingdon Series. It will be followed by the sixth and final volume of the series, which will bear the title, "Rex Kingdon and His Chums." In that forthcoming story Rex will finish his course at the Hall. As he regretfully bids good-by to the old school, the reader who has faithfully followed his career since he made his first bow in "Rex Kingdon of Ridgewood High" will have to bid good-by to him—as regretfully, I hope.
GORDON BRADDOCK.

• Language: English
• Publisher: anboco
• Release date: Sep 29, 2016
• ISBN: 9783736416338

Book preview

REX KINGDON ON STORM ISLAND

AUTHOR'S FOREWORD.

Rex Kingdon on Storm Island.

THE MENACE OF THE LAW.

IN STOLEN PLUMAGE.

THE CATBOAT IN THE SQUALL.

A LANDING IN THE DARK.

BEHIND THE LIGHTED CANVAS.

GETTING BACK TO THE BOAT.

ON THE VERGE OF SOMETHING.

A BARGAIN IS STRUCK.

A CHALLENGE.

KINGDON STATES A DETERMINATION.

ENOS QUIBB AGAIN.

AN UNEXPECTED DIFFICULTY.

REX OWNS UP.

A LIVELY TIME.

WHAT'S SAUCE FOR THE GOOSE.

WHITE WINGS.

AN OFF-SHORE BLOW.

THE HAPPY FAMILY.

MORE OF MR. QUIBB.

KINGDON'S SURPRISING MOVE.

REVENGE.

THE BOULDER ON THE HILLSIDE.

A THREATENING SKY.

A LUCKY MOVE.

THE EIGHT-OARED SHELL.

PENCE DEFENDS KIRBY.

VISITORS.

HORACE PROVES HIMSELF.

SOMETHING IN THE OFFING.

FACING DEFEAT.

HORACE SHOWS THE RIGHT SPIRIT.

IN FORM AT LAST.

REX KINGDON ON STORM ISLAND

By GORDON BRADDOCK

AUTHOR OF

Rex Kingdon of Ridgewood High, "Rex Kingdon in the

the North Woods, Rex Kingdon at Walcott Hall,"

Rex Kingdon Behind the Bat, etc.

Title page picture

AUTHOR'S FOREWORD.

How would you like to spend a summer vacation on an uninhabited island off the Maine coast,—not alone, of course, but in company with a few chosen chums, all good fellows in their way and all of them ready for any sort of sport or adventure that might be found or borrowed? Surely, such a vacation would provide plenty of good fun, as well as some troubles and annoyances; but no vigorous, high-spirited American boy would mind a certain amount of inconveniences when he sets out to have a good time on a camping trip. In fact, he looks for some unpleasant things to happen, and he has a way of going right ahead and making the best of everything, so that many a time a source of irritation is turned into a spring of enjoyment and delight.

It was so with Rex Kingdon and his friends of the present story. When they arrived at Storm Island and found another party of campers located there, they at first were annoyed. They had understood that no one else would be given a permit to camp on that island. Imagine their astonishment when they discovered that the other party had deceived a local officer into letting them remain on the island by representing themselves to be Rex Kingdon and friends, rightful holders of the camping permit. Trouble? Could anything spell trouble more plainly? But, after all, they managed to get more real fun out of it than they could have had if they had been the only campers on Storm Island. And, in the end, Rex wins a new recruit for Walcott Hall—and the prep. school baseball team.

This is the fifth story of The Rex Kingdon Series. It will be followed by the sixth and final volume of the series, which will bear the title, Rex Kingdon and His Chums. In that forthcoming story Rex will finish his course at the Hall. As he regretfully bids good-by to the old school, the reader who has faithfully followed his career since he made his first bow in Rex Kingdon of Ridgewood High will have to bid good-by to him—as regretfully, I hope.

GORDON BRADDOCK.

New York, February 14, 1917.

Rex Kingdon on Storm Island.

CHAPTER I.

THE MENACE OF THE LAW.

What's that noise? Say, Pudge, wake up and take a look.

Hey? What noise? stammered Pudge MacComber, startled out of serene slumber.

Hear it? Sounds like a lot of soda-water bottles popping. Take a squint, Lazy.

The fat youth might have returned the compliment. Ben Comas lay on his back in the shade and did not even remove the cap over his eyes. Pudge, however, knew his cousin too well, and was too much in his debt, to file any objection to this command. Heaving a sigh, he struggled heavily to his feet. As he did so he became aware of a half-muffled put, put, put-a-put rising from the water which the camp site overlooked.

Why, that's a motorboat! he exclaimed before spying the craft in question.

Noisy thing, grunted Ben, without moving.

It's aiming this way, Pudge said, right for our landing.

Going to have visitors? Thought nobody ever came here.

Wouldn't think many folks would, with the signs the Manatee Company have stuck up, chuckled Pudge. Say!

Say it, grunted Ben.

Only one man in the launch, an' I see something flash. Yes, Pudge gurgled, I bet it is!

What's the matter with you? grumbled Ben, finally sitting up. You talk like a frog. What d'ye see?

He's got a badge, the fat boy said, solemnly. I wish I could see his face.

What d'ye mean? Ben was now vastly and suddenly aroused. Is it a constable? Where's Joe? He knows everybody 'round here—or he ought to.

Joe's asleep.

Wake him up. We didn't hire him to sleep, did we? Go on, you snail, ordered Ben.

Behind one of the two tents, pitched in this open glade on the rather steep northern shore of Storm Island, sprawled a roughly-dressed fellow. When Pudge had done Ben's bidding and aroused this individual, the latter uncovered his face, revealing features unmistakably those of an Indian boy. He came sullenly down to the other two lads.

What y'want? he asked, yawning.

Who's that coming this way, Joe? Ben Comas questioned. That fellow in the launch?

The Indian's eyes snapped open and he stooped a little, shading them with his hand, the better to view the approaching boat and its single occupant. Then he straightened up again, turning as though to retreat.

Know him, he said.

Who is he? Pudge put in. A cop?

Him Quibb.

What'd I tell you? cried Pudge. That's the name of the constable we saw at Blackport—Enos Quibb.

The one Horrors had the growl with, Ben agreed, rather faintly. He's coming straight for us.

The Indian youth had already disappeared. The motorboat was nearing the shore of the island just below the camp. The cousins could plainly see the constable's face, as well as the big star upon his vest. Enos Quibb was not a handsome person at best, and just now his face was inflamed with anger and his frown was most portentous.

He's got it in for us, said Pudge, apprehensively.

All because of that fresh up there tossing the ball. It's up to him—that's what it is, declared Ben warmly. Run, tell Horrors to come down here.

With a groan, the fat youth turned and waddled up the path into the thicker wood which seemed to crown the island. In the very middle of Storm Island, however, lay about two acres of open and level lawn. While yet Pudge was some distance from this spot the resonant slap of a ball as it landed in the catcher's mitt echoed flatly from the wall of tall trees completely surrounding the natural amphitheater.

Hey! That's enough, Horrors! the puffing fat boy heard Harry Kirby shout. It's too hot to keep at it any longer. Quit, I say!

Evidently he had flung the ball to the pitcher after removing his padded glove, and, just as Pudge came in sight of the two, the one called Horrors wound up again and whipped a sizzler over the marked square on the turf serving as the home plate.

Quit, I say! again yelled the backstop, as he leaped into the air, letting the low ball pass between his legs. Think I'd be silly enough to try to stop that with my bare hands? That arm of yours has got dynamite in it, Horrors.

The pitcher was grinning in reply when a wild yell sounded from Pudge at the edge of the wood behind the catcher's station.

Hey, you fellers! What're you tryin' to do—kill me? Nobody but a wild squawpaw could send in such a bullet. Ouch!

Pudge limped forward, rubbing his shin where the pitched ball had nicked him.

Come on—retrieve it, ordered the pitcher, strolling toward the platter.

Chase your own ball, returned Pudge. I didn't come 'way up here to play Fido. Why'd Kirby let it go by him?

The backstop was wiping his brow with a torn shirtsleeve. Catch me trying to stop one of Horrors' fast ones without my mitt. Not much!

Say, you fellers! exclaimed Pudge, remembering his errand. Ben says come on down to the camp—and in a hurry. There's a motor launch in sight.

Didn't you fellers ever see a motor launch before? demanded Kirby.

But it's aiming right for our landing.

What if? drawled the tall fellow whom his mates called Horrors.

Who's in the launch? asked Kirby.

It's that constable Horrors had the fuss with at Blackport. Remember?

Shall I ever forget him? murmured the tall lad. The chap with the big tin star and the lovely yellow freckles.

Enos Quibb, Kirby said, chuckling. He's one sure enough farmer—that's right.

Just the same, said the fat boy, wagging his head, I wish he'd keep away from here—and so does Ben.

Poof! scoffed Kirby. If Ben expressed a dislike for the sunshine or the sweet air, you'd keep in the shade and put on an overcoat, Pudge. What Ben says is law and gospel for you.

We-ell, drawled Pudge MacComber frankly. You know I wouldn't be up here if it wasn't for Cousin Ben. He paid my way.

Yes, muttered Kirby to the taller fellow, and I know Ben didn't give Pudge any return ticket, either. Keeps Pudge in leash better if he has no money in his jeans.

The fat youth did not hear this aside. He was saying: We shouldn't have camped down there so near the shore. It's too exposed. Ben said that in the first place.

Aw—Ben! scoffed Kirby, while the tall chap smiled quizzically at the fat boy.

He was right just the same. Here comes Enos Quibb, and we're going to get the boot, sure. We haven't permission from the Manatee Lumber Company to camp here, and you fellows know it. We'll have to sing 'It's Moving Day,' all right-o—and just as we got comfortably settled, too, finished Pudge with a groan.

Come on, said Kirby. Don't stand there weeping over it.

Already their leader was striding into the wood, and Kirby hastened to catch up with him. Pudge MacComber plodded on behind. It was a hot day, and he suffered from his exertions.

What'll we do? asked Kirby, at the tall fellow's elbow.

About what? countered the other, with a lift of his eyebrows and a tantalizing smile that seemed an index of his character. What's fussing you up, Harry?

"This Quibb can put us off the island. Of course, the Lumber Company did issue a permit for a party to camp here—and we're here first—huh?"

His friend had grabbed his arm suddenly, stopping dead in the path. "You do have an idea once in a while in that cranium of yours, Harry," he drawled.

I don't feel any different from usual, said Kirby, rubbing his head and grinning. If there's an idea milling around in there I don't sense it.

But I do. Leave it to me. His friend started onward again, leading the procession to the encampment.

It was a beautiful spot they had selected in which to set up their tents—an open grove sloping easily to the edge of Manatee Sound which lay, on this particular June day, as smooth as a millpond between the island and Manatee Head, five miles away.

Ben Comas, much excited, hurried toward them. Whatchu goin' to do about this, Horrors? See that fellow? He's mad's a hatter.

He'll have a stroke—I shouldn't wonder, drawled the tall lad. Too hot a day to let one's dander rise.

You can joke, snapped Ben. But he means business.

The launch was now close to the shore, and the exhaust ceased popping. Enos Quibb, the Blackport constable, stood in the bow boathook in hand, scowling threateningly at the group above him.

CHAPTER II.

IN STOLEN PLUMAGE.

My, my! murmured the only member of the camping party who seemed to take the visit of the constable with any degree of composure. He seems savage enough to eat nails.

Now, don't, Horrors! begged Ben Comas. Don't make it worse!

Better be smooth with him, old man, urged Kirby.

See if you can pacify him, groaned Pudge. I worked like a dog helping Joe get this camp fixed.

Their leader chuckled as he walked down to the natural dock where the two canoes, in which the party had reached Storm Island, were moored. The view of the sound, the rugged, well-wooded and scantily-inhabited mainland in the distance, expanded before his gaze. For several miles in either direction this mainland, as well as Storm Island itself, was either owned or leased by the Manatee Lumber Company. On the mainland the timber was properly policed by the company's guards; but Storm Island, far off shore, was considered secure from invasion by irresponsible fishing parties and the like, by the trespass signs posted upon its beaches. Blackport, the nearest town, ten miles from the western point of the island, was hidden from it by the wooded and rocky crabclaw sheltering Blackport Cove.

There was scarcely a habitation to be seen from the spot where the boys' camp had been established. There were fish-weirs visible at several points along the shore; but the catches gathered from these traps were, as a usual thing, taken to Blackport to be cleaned and iced, and then shipped to Portland or Boston by train. The locality was, therefore, as deserted as any spot along the entire stretch of the Maine coast.

Enos Quibb caught his boathook in the exposed root of one of the two great trees at the landing, drew the launch closer, and moored it. Then he sprang ashore. He was not a very big man save in his sense of importance. Being of a sandy complexion, his innumerable freckles were painfully yellow and prominent. His large, high-bridged nose was of a cold blue color even on this hot summer's day.

Say, you boys! he began. Can't ye read them signs?

What signs, kind sir? asked Horrors, languidly. Ben Comas, at his elbow, nudged the taller lad and whispered:

Don't make it worse! Don't nag him!

Them 'No Trespass' signs, said the constable. You know well enough they was put up to warn such chaps as you be off the island.

But suppose we don't believe in signs? You know, I never was superstitious myself; I'd just as soon walk under a ladder—or take a bath on a Friday—as not.

Pudge began to chuckle, and the wrath of the constable was flagged in his thin cheeks by a rising flush.

Stop it! Stop it! ejaculated Ben Comas, under his breath. We're in a bad enough scrape as it is.

The other gave no heed. He showed his even teeth in a sudden smile, that was all. Enos Quibb said, harshly:

"You're one smart boy, I don't dispute; but if you and your friends don't pack up and git off of this island shortly, you'll be smarter. Don't you know